I think these towels must belong to one of the more up-market hotels on the Ganga, because after they were washed in the waters of the river, they were then hung rather than spread out to dry. I wish I could like this method for washing clothes. After all, it provides work for launderers who are able to spend their days in the open air (for one whose work ties her to a computer, this is a definite plus), doesn’t use electricity or any kind of technology other than the human body, and provides a vital service. But I can’t. I love my washing machine.
I remember a close friend telling me, at a time when my own finances were teetering perilous close to the abyss of destitution, that she would not hesitate to extend her own sizable debt to buy a new washing machine if hers broke down. I was horrified, but then, I’d never owned a washing machine and instead relied on regular visits to the Launderette around the corner. As far as I remember, in those days I spent most of my money on alcohol and books. The whole business of owning a washing machine seemed to me to be a symbol of settling into a comfortably bourgeois form of slavery, and from my materially unfettered (but debt-ridden) perspective, represented selling out. But I get it now.
What this means is, age has most definitely withered me and with it, my love of physical ease and comfort has wiped out any hint of ‘infinite variety.’ Who would have thought I would come to such a pass? Bugger it!